


The Romantic Satire

by Dancewithknives



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angela "Mercy" Ziegler is an Angel, Gen, Junkrat | Jamison Fawkes is a Little Shit, Ragequit, Satire, Smoking, Young Jesse McCree, romantic, the
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 21:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancewithknives/pseuds/Dancewithknives
Summary: Junkrat goes to get a mandatory Checkup. Ends up as a new man.Due to popularity of my other satire, I decided to drudge up this old work from the depths of dispair.





	The Romantic Satire

The Romantic Satire

Written By: Dancewithknives

 

A stench filled the air of Overwatch’s Medical Facility. It wasn’t the sterile gagging bite of ammonia from its constant cleanings and abuse of antiseptics, or the vomit inducing smell of a gorilla with irritable bowels, or the distinct wiff of dead decaying flesh; it was far worse. It was the putrid smell of burned human hair, wrapped together with a coat of the body’s natural oil, mixed with radioactive sweat and left out in the hot, baking sun for years on end. Better known by the common man as the natural musk of an Australian.

 

Random passersby, doctors, nurses, lab techs, and guards neared the source of the smell and scurried away as fast as possible. The epicenter of the nasal attack originated in a simple offshoot of the general checkup wing, from a private examination room where- if one could stomach rounding the corner long enough- they could swear that a rather engaging conversation was taking place. But that was simply not true.

 

Inside of said room, a young man by the name of Jamison Fawkes –or as he preferred to go by his alias, Junkrat- recounted tales of great bravery and heroism in defense of the liberty of his beloved home of Australia. Meanwhile, his physician stood with her back to the brave rebel; hearing- but not listening- to his epitaph. For you see, to have a conversation two participants must be involved in the common subject matter. In reality, Junkrat sat spread out across the examination table, staining the entire length of the white sanitary paper and incessantly talked about himself to himself.

 

Dr. Angela Ziegler; MD PHD, stood with her back to him as he droned on about stories of monumental stupidity on his self-entitled quest to blow the world up. Respectfully, she turned her back and filled out the corresponding paperwork to his entrance physical examination hoping that, like a normal functioning person, he would lose interest and quiet down after the doctor’s nonverbal grunts became fewer and far between. But that had been an hour ago. Now, the doctor stood at the counter top with a pen that had since run out of ink, writing the oath, “I swear to do no harm” onto both sides of a blank piece of paper, long since filling out both sides and now puncturing into the white countertop after burning through the parchment with countless swipes of her pen.

“AND THEN IT ALL WENT ‘KA-BOOOOOOM!’” Junkrat shouted, raising both arms into the air and unleashing more of the putrid smelling Weapon of Mass Destruction from his armpits. The doctor didn’t notice, her nostrils long since gone dormant to save themselves from what she imagined Sarin Gas must have smelt like.

 

There was a moment of silence, the eye of sanity in a Willy-Willy of madness. The doctor’s mind raced at the rate and magnitude that could have defeated Watson at simultaneous games of Jeopardy and Chess as she thought of something -anything- to get a word in.

 

“Oi, Goldilocks? Did I ever tell you about that time Me mate Ellis and I-”

 

“Yes! As a matter of fact you have!” Angela interjected, jumping around and approaching her patient. “Now-“ she started, looking for anything to shut him up for an extra nanosecond, “Your prosthetics. They seem rather improvised, how did you receive your augmentations?”

 

“Oh, these things?” he asked, pulling up his peg-leg and flexing his robotic fingers, bits of pieces swinging free as he moved them. “I met a guy who needed them once, I needed them more. Speaking of which, that’s one’s a doozie! Let me tell you, Goldilocks! That time me and me mate-”

 

“ _oh lieber Christus._ ” She thought. Pinching the bridge of her nose. Shouting over him to reclaim the conversation, she said, “Being that I’m a licensed augment mechanic. I’d like to have a copy of the user manual, do you have one?”

 

“Me? Oh yeah, sure. Haven’t used the bloody thing for it once. I keep ‘er up in proper order.” Upon making the claim, a nut went loose. Never to be seen again.

 

“No wonder. Its being held together by duct tape, bubble gum, and a disregard for reality.” She added. “Either way, just send it to me when you get the chance.”

 

“Meh, gonna be a while. It’s back at me place in Junkertown.”

 

“I… _Vait… Vhat_?” she said, accent slipping as she felt as if she had experienced a spontaneous aneurism due to absorbing too much stupidity. “But you said that you had a copy?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, quieting down, but the smile on his face growing all the more of a presence in the room. “It’s at me place in Junkertown.”

 

Inside Angela’s head, a braincell committed Seppuku, not being able to live with the stupidity that it had just witnessed.

 

To the enjoyment of her patient, Dr. Ziegler took a moment to recover, returning to bedside manner by saying, “Well then, next time you can, please bring it back with you so I can have it in the event that my care is required, ok?”

 

“Sure.” He said, smirk growing like the gap between shifting tectonic plates, “Me thinks you won’t want it, Goldilocks. It’s got a few pages missin, and it reeks somthin’ fierce. Probably because I’s keep it in the outhouse.”

 

A synapse snapped in Angela’s head. “So you use the operator’s manual for your prosthetic arm as… as… toilet paper!”

 

“Yeah, just cuz it’s called a manual doesn’t mean it you use it like one.”

 

All across Angela’s cognitive functions, brain cells committed mass suicide. Her once record setting Intelligence Quota began to fall, if she didn’t find relief soon then she would be doomed to a life of drooling into cereal while watching children’s cartoons and having to wear a special helmet in the bathtub.

 

As spontaneous as a kernel popping on a hot pan, Angela Ziegler popped her head up with an ample amount of cheer in her voice. “Excuse me for one moment, please.” She said, calmly walking to the door, exiting and then marching down the halls.

 

She exited the facility from the back door, walked across the grassy knoll that was maintained by the hospital’s groundsmen, and approached a single tree in the distance.

 

A figure stood in the shade, and upon seeing the approaching doctor, took cover behind it, hiding the best they could.

 

As she expected, Jesse McCree was tucked flat against the tree trying to act as if random cowboys were native to this part of Switzerland. Both hands hiding behind his back but a large, freshly lit cigar in the mouth, he mumbled, “Oh, howdy doc. I wasn’t doin’ nothing-” a nervous smile crossing his face as he realized he forgot to hide his stogie.

 

Without saying a word, Angela snatched the cigar from his mouth and placed it in her mouth, taking in a long pull of black smoke from the cancer on a stick.  If Jesse wasn’t petrified about all of the toilets he was going to have to clean after breaking the base’s “No Smoking” policy for the umpteenth time, he would have been impressed.

 

The damp and coarse taste of the polluted air filled her lungs, dropping stress levels and relieving tension throughout her body. Exhaling a thick black cloud, she said, “Thanks,” before dropping the cigar on the ground and crushing beneath her foot, “I needed to do something disgusting.” She finished, turning back towards the medical buildings.

 

His cowboy mind too simple to comprehend the sophisticated world of European medicine, the McCree stood there and said the only thing he thought appropriate at the time, “You’re welcome?”

 

Returning to the examination room, Angela found Junkrat had continued the conversation from before, having fully understood –but not caring- that no one was listening to him. Seizing control before she felt the urge to use tobacco to end the suffering of her brain cells again, Angela said, “Well, good news Mr. Fawkes, one more procedure and you will be free to go.”

 

 “About time, Goldilock, the waitin’s drivin’ me so mad I’m about to start talkin’ to me-self.”

 

Angela ignored the spontaneous twitch in her eye as she made her way to the countertop and opened an attaché case. Inside, she found a monitoring device and a syringe loaded with a precise cocktail of substances loaded based on his size and weight, labeled “J. Fawkes”.

 

She turned, holding the syringe in her hand as she approached. Junkrat was busy smiling, bobbing his head back and forth as he entertained the delusions in his mind, but stopped dead in his tracks upon glancing at the doctor.

 

“Woah woah woah! What do you think you’re doing, Goldilocks?”

 

“This?” she asked, holding up the small syringe. “It’s a vitals and location monitoring device. Every active agent gets one, you accepted it when you joined Overwatch.”

 

He began shaking his head furiously, scooting himself away from the doctor as she approached. “Nope! Nuh Uh! Not happening!”

 

The feeling of overwhelming stupidity returned to her, “But… Mr. Fawkes, you’ve blown two of your limbs off… how would this little needle even compare to that? I mean… with enough time I might be able to help you regrow your lost limbs!”

 

“Nope! Don’t want it! Put it back Goldilocks!” He said before falling into what could only be described as a tantrum, kicking out with all of his limbs and shouting out the mantra, “Four limbs good; Two limbs better!”

 

From holding it in a way to rapidly administer the injection, Angela wrapped the body of the syringe in her palm. Her grip became tighter with each repetition of his new catchphrase.

 

“Mr. Fawkes, you need to settle down, its just a-”

 

“Four limbs good; Two limbs better!”

 

“Jameson, please! It’s just a-”

 

“Four limbs good; Two limbs better!”

 

“Junkrat, listen to me-”

 

“Four limbs good; Two limbs better!”

 

**“JUNKRAT!”**

 

Junkrat stopped, staring straight at the doctor as she stood there with her fists clenched at her hips. Things had become so quiet that he swore he could hear the glass body of the hyperdermic injection beginning to crack inside her palm.

 

She lunged forward, causing Junkrat to dodge what he interpreted as a headbutt by backing up, but only slamming his head into the wall behind him.

 

For a moment he saw nothing but stars, but as he came too he noticed something wasn’t right. Her face was right in front of his, and something was in his mouth.

 

The explosive and bombastic nature of Jameson Fawkes fizzled out and died like a wet fuse as he submitted to the intruder inside of him. Her warm, smooth tongue broke through jagged teeth, conquered cavities, and tamed his tongue.

 

The only thing that existed in the world was the face of the doctor before him, hair perfect, skin as pure as a marble statue, eyes closed as she filled him with her feminine wiles.  The sparks that lit the tips of his receding hairline spontaneously snuffed themselves out, his body went cold, and the fragmented thoughts that scattered throughout his mind formed together, causing the remaining grey matter in his brain to think coherent thoughts.

 

In the first sane thought he had made in years, he understood what was in front of him. It wasn’t a woman, or a doctor, or something he should respect. What stood before him was a goddess, something to be worshiped and feared.  

 

For some reason, he felt the urge to go take a long and cold shower.

 

The doctor opened her eyes, pulling her head away and standing up straight, leaving nothing but a long thread of saliva hanging from her patient’s mouth.

 

Free from the captor in his body, Junkrat relaxed. Taught skin, stretched from years of holding the shape of an insane smile began to fall and droop. The fires of madness in his eyes snuffed out as he began to slowly slouch, becoming the thing that he hated the most. A normie. He looked down at his fleshy arm, noticing the band-aid placed on the vein at his wrist and the tiny bump of pain that he felt there.

 

The dominatrix doctor stood up straight, the syringe empty in her hand as she looked down upon him with the contempt that a school teacher would hold for their most disobedient student.

 

Junkrat sat in the humiliation of an angry deity, not knowing what to do next. What to say, what to think, or how to act. Slowly, he raised a finger and asked, “Gol-”

 

“Shut. Up.”

 

 

Mako Rutledge sat on his massive behind in front of one of his only pastimes left in the world. Earlier in the day, his cohort had informed him that he would be needing to see a doctor or something, and had given him strict orders to stay out of trouble.

 

Like he needed to stay out of trouble. He scoffed at the thought.

 

Taking advantage of a quiet, Junkrat-free morning, Mako decided to find a nice shady spot underneath a tree and tune up his motorcycle.

 

It was some time later that something strange happened. For the first time he had ever known him, Roadhog saw Junkrat approaching before he heard him.

 

Thinking that they finally found a muzzle strong enough to shut him up, Roadhog said nothing as he kept the attention on his bike. Without saying a word, Junkrat walked past his partner in crime and sat at the base of the tree stump, completely silent.

 

It was strange, alarming almost, but Mako wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he kept working on his bike while Junkrat sat behind him, staring off into the distance with a blank expression on his face.

 

Hours later, Junkrat broke his silence, speaking less like a madman with so many different thought that not even he could comprehend, but more like a genuinely confused schoolboy, tugging on his mother’s apron.

 

“Roadie?” He asked.

 

“Hm?” he grunted.

 

“I think I’m in love.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a year ago as a vindictive satire against the Overwatch Amino admins for their stupid rules. Written to ridicule them before I was inevitably banned. 
> 
> I will provide context as requested.


End file.
